


Kings Of Emotional Repression

by FictionalNutter



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Amulet, Amulet Fix, Fix-It, Gen, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Dean Winchester, Samulet, Spoilers For Episode: s08e23 Sacrifice, Voicemail, voicemail fix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-04
Updated: 2013-09-04
Packaged: 2017-12-25 15:16:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/954646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FictionalNutter/pseuds/FictionalNutter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following the events of "Sacrifice," Dean takes Sam back to the bunker to try and deal with the pain he's going through after failing to complete the trials. The side effects of failing seem to be largely psychological, so Dean feels helpless watching his brother suffer. As it turns out though, several of the issues plaguing Sam's psyche are things that Dean can help with. This isn't *technically* Wincest, but it's written by a shipper of it, so interpret it how you will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kings Of Emotional Repression

Dean's stressed breathing was the loudest noise in the bunker, and that was making him feel even worse. Kevin was hiding out in his bedroom, terrified of either the events of the previous evening or Dean's mood, the older Winchester wasn't really sure which. Crowley was downstairs in the dungeon, because Dean really hadn't known what else to do with the mostly-human demon king. Castiel was who-knows-where, and Dean was feeling increasingly more concerned that the angel was either dead or without his memories. Either way, Dean wasn't expecting to see him again.

Sam was the worst though. Sam was tucked into his bed, shaking with some kind of fever, and suffering worse than Dean had ever seen him. Not even the demon blood detoxes had been this bad. As far as Dean could tell, what Sam was suffering was something mostly psychological that was manifesting in physical symptoms. He had some kind of magical energy connected to the trials that was wreaking havoc with his physical pain receptors, and was probably the cause of his fever, but every time Sam cried out, it was because of something inside his head.

Dean wasn't even sure what it was that Sam was dreaming about, because Sam was never lucid enough for long enough for Dean to figure out what he was saying. The conversation they had had in the church was still preying on Dean, and he hoped that he'd managed to get through to Sam in some way. The pain in Sam's voice when he was explaining what he thought his greatest sin was...Dean never wanted to hear that tone in his little brother's voice again.

"Dean?" Sam's voice was raspy and stressed.

"Hey, you okay there?" Dean asked, immediately at his brother's bedside. Sam hadn't really said much yet, and none of it had been coherent. Hopefully he was starting to wake up a little.

"Dean?" Sam asked again, looking past Dean, not at him.

"I'm right here, Sammy," Dean told him urgently, pulling his chair closer to the bed. "I promise, I'm right here, and I'm not going anywhere."

Sam seemed to focus on Dean for a split second before his eyes closed and he shook his head. When he opened his eyes again, they were teary and reflected whatever pained struggle was happening inside his head. "You're not really here," he whispered.

"I am, I swear," Dean promised. "Have you been hallucinating?"

Sam nodded slowly. "Like with the blood," he said quietly, flinching at the memory.

"I'm real, Sam, I promise. Do you believe me?" Dean asked softly.

Sam's eyes shut and he took a deep breath, shuddering. "I always hallucinate you," he replied.

"What do I say?" Dean wondered apprehensively, not really expecting Sam to answer.

"That I'm a monster," Sam told him, his voice so quiet that Dean almost missed it.

Dean could have sworn that he felt his heart break in two at the pained words. "I've never said that to you, Sammy," He promised, his voice firm. "and I never will."

Sam began shaking his head, agitated. "Now I know you aren't real," he whimpered. His back arched as some physical manifestation of the pain attacked him, and he began to gasp loudly, tears leaking from his eyes.

"Hey, hey, Sam!" Dean said desperately, trying to get a grip on Sam before he hurt himself. "You're okay, you hear me? You're going to be fine. Relax, I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

Slowly, Sam's body stopped jerking in pain, and he sank back into the bed, but he remained tense, his expression guarded.

"Why do you think I'm not real?" Dean asked cautiously. If he could figure out where Sam's head was at, maybe he could fix the problem.

"I know you're lying," Sam replied, his voice weaker. "It hurts too much."

Dean's hands fluttered helplessly, and he couldn't figure out how to respond. "Why do you think I'm lying, Sam?" He asked, his tone desperate.

Sam shook his head and didn't answer. "I don't think it'll stop," he said slowly.

"What, Sam? The pain? You'll get through this," Dean urged.

"No, it would be easier to just end it," Sam disagreed, his tone firmer, though his voice was still weak.

Dean shook his head violently. "No way in hell, Sam. You're going to get through this, you hear me?"

"I'm not going to kill myself, Dean," Sam replied quietly. "I don't want to go back to Hell...that's worse."

Dean wasn't sure what part of that to address first. He floundered for a moment before finally asking, "Why do you think you're going to Hell, Sam?"

Sam turned and gave him a look like he was crazy. "Where else would I be going? Even if I could get to Heaven, I don't want to."

Now it was Dean's turn to look at Sam like he was nuts. "I can understand not wanting Hell, but why don't you want Heaven? Not that I'm exactly a fan of the Heavenly Host, but..."

"My Heaven isn't real," Sam explained, tears leaking again. "I don't want it."

Dean was confused, and he knew his face showed it. "What do you mean it wasn't real? You had your happy memories, remember? The Thanksgiving thing, and the dog, and the night you left for school. Aren't those your good memories?"

Sam shook his head violently, his expression angry. "No!" He protested. "They all have good parts, but they aren't the best."

"I thought Heaven was supposed to be your best memories, Sam," Dean said. "Weren't those yours? You seemed to enjoy them." He remember his own reaction to Sam's greatest hits, but he didn't want to bring that up right now. It wasn't worth hurting Sam more.

Sam shook his head again. Even though he didn't really believe Dean was there, it was important to explain this. He started crying again, unable to stop it. "I asked Cas," he explained slowly. "Zachariah did something, to make it easier to hurt us. He could reach me easier because I'm tainted, and Heaven was already having trouble accepting me. He changed my Heaven, and it's wrong now. I don't want to go there."

Dean froze, and he began to process that. It did fit with Zachariah's MO. Everything he had done had been designed to turn Sam and Dean against each other. If he had screwed with Sam to make his Heaven distorted, that would explain why Sam's memories were so random and odd. Logically, Dean knew that Sam had reasons to remember those events with happiness, but none of them had been anything he'd have thought fit into Sam's top ten list of memories. In fact, now that he thought about it, it almost seemed as though those memories had been chosen specifically to anger Dean, to make him feel like Sam preferred him gone. How had he not realized that sooner?

"He didn't need to bother though," Sam said weakly, flinching violently as a spasm ran through his arm.

Dean held him still during the pain, then asked, "Why? What do you mean?"

"You lost your faith in me long before that," Sam murmured softly, closing his eyes and turning his face away.

"Hey," Dean said sharply, causing Sam to turn back and look at him in surprise. "I never lost my faith in you, Sam, never. I've definitely had some times when I didn't feel like I could trust you, but you have always been my brother, and I will never stop caring about you or believing in you, even if I'm pissed as hell. You hearing me?" His voice was fierce, and he could see by Sam's wide eyes that he didn't really believe it. "What do I have to say to make you understand that?" Dean asked rhetorically, groaning to himself.

"I thought for a long time that you were going to kill me," Sam whimpered, still staring disbelievingly at Dean.

Dean felt like he'd been punched in the stomach. "Why?" He demanded. "Why would you ever think that?"

Sam gave him a bewildered look. "Because you said you would," he explained like it was obvious.

"I never threatened to kill you," Dean said viciously. "I never would. What the hell are you talking about? Was this one of your hallucinations?"

"No," Sam replied, his voice stronger now with anger. "I was awake and upright that time."

"When?" Dean demanded, his face pinched with concern and barely concealed fury.

"Almost four years ago, Dean," Sam told him, his tone weakening again.

Dean had to think about it for a minute, but he knew that that time frame took them back to when Lucifer had risen. "Sam, I'll admit I threw some crap your way back then, not that you weren't totally asking for it, but I never said I'd kill you."

Sam looked hurt that Dean apparently didn't remember. "Where's my phone?" He asked suddenly, something in his eyes looking determined.

Dean looked confused by the awkward segue. "Uh, I don't know. In the car maybe?"

"Get my phone," Sam demanded. "I need it."

Dean considered arguing, but decided it wasn't worth it. "Fine. I'll be right back." He left the room quickly, taking the opportunity to breathe and try to relax. Either Sam was a lot worse than he had thought, or they had deeper seated issues than he'd thought. Or both. He had been right though, the phone was in the car. He picked it up and walked back inside quickly, returning to Sam's beside. He handed the phone to Sam, who nodded weakly in thanks.

Sam hit a few buttons on his phone, then turned the volume up and held it out.

Dean's voice filled the room, filled with such hate and disgust that Dean almost didn't recognize it. "Listen to me, you bloodsucking freak. Dad always said I'd either have to save you or kill you. Well, I'm giving you fair warning. I'm done trying to save you. You're a monster, Sam - a vampire. You're not you anymore, and there's no going back."

Sam clicked a button to save the message again and tucked his phone into his pocket. "Remember now?" He asked quietly.

"That..." Dean struggled for words. He didn't know how to fix this, or even where to start. "Sam, when did you get that?"

"Right before I killed Lilith," Sam replied softly. "I was having second thoughts."

Dean's heart broke again. It seemed to be the day for that. He wondered how many pieces it was in now. "God, Sam..."

"It's okay, Dean," Sam whispered. "It's been years, it doesn't matter anymore."

"Then why do you still have it?" Dean snapped. He rubbed a hand over his face and sighed. "I...Sam, I know you're not going to believe this, but I never said that. Never."

Sam's face contorted into a pained expression and he shook his head. "Don't. Please don't."

"Sammy, I swear. It wasn't me. I did leave you a voicemail that night, but it was an apology. Actually, I think I said I owed you a beatdown, but I told you we were still brothers and that I was sorry. I promise. I don't know what happened, but I'd bet the Impala that Zachariah screwed with the message. He did tell me you'd be getting a push, I just didn't think it would be me. God, Sam, why didn't you ever say anything? I would never have let you believe any of that crap. Even when I was so pissed at you I couldn't even be in the same room without getting angry, I never wanted you dead. Never!" Dean was crying now, and he wiped his face angrily, taking a deep breath to calm himself. "I swear, Sam, I swear. Please say you believe me." What hurt more than anything else was the fact that Sam had saved the message. It was old enough that his phone would have prompted him to save it regularly, which meant that Sam had listened to it plenty of times, and always thought it was really from Dean. He would have had to keep saving it, backing it up and moving it to his new phone whenever he destroyed an old one. That was worse than anything else.

Sam was breathing hard and gaping at Dean. "You'd bet the Impala?" He asked weakly.

Dean let out a breathy chuckle and nodded, sniffing as he swatted away a few more tears. "Yeah, Sammy. I'm that serious."

"Then why..." Sam started to ask, then shook his head. "No, never mind."

"Why what, Sam?" Dean asked urgently. "Tell me."

"It doesn't matter," Sam said softly. "Can I have something to drink?"

Dean sighed, but knew that he wouldn't get whatever else was bothering his brother out of him until he was ready to give it up. "Yeah, one sec. I'll grab you some water, and I'll see if I can find any more painkillers."

"Thanks," Sam replied.

Slowly, Dean stood and left the room, sighing as he did so. If nothing else, at least Sam seemed to believe he was really there. For now, at least. Hopefully he would get better, not worse. He wandered into the kitchen and filled up a glass of water, then began to dig through the cabinet where they kept medications, looking for something to help with Sam's pain. Thankfully they had a half-full bottle of Vicoden and a mostly full bottle of Motrin. He grabbed both and headed back to Sam's room.

Sam looked up when Dean entered the room, his expression still distant and pained, but not as devastated as it had been before.

"Feeling any better?" Dean asked cautiously.

"Yeah," Sam replied, adjusting the blankets absentmindedly. "Not as...well, my head feels a little better."

Dean just nodded, setting the water and bottles of drugs down. "You wanting the heavy stuff or just something to help with the headache?" He asked.

Sam was quiet for a moment. "Motrin is probably fine," he answered slowly. "The physical pain isn't...it's just not as manageable I don't think."

Dean accepted that, counting out a few pills and handing them to Sam with the water. "You believe I'm real now, right?" He asked. He had to be sure.

"Yeah, Dean." Sam said quietly. "I'll be okay."

"Not what I asked," Dean muttered. "Is there anything I can say or do to help you?" Taking care of Sam like this reminded him of when they were little, whenever Sam got hurt. Dean hadn't been quite this doting on his younger brother in years, not since before Stanford.

"It's fine, Dean. I believe you." Sam assured him, but his response was weak.

"Yeah? Well I don't believe you," Dean retorted. "Something's still bothering you, and talking it out can only help your recovery, you hear me?"

Sam swallowed the pills and took a drink of water, giving Dean a look of consternation. "I don't want to hash out old issues, Dean. We're okay now. Really."

Dean groaned and leaned back in his chair, frustrated. "Getting answers out of you is like pulling teeth, Sammy. Why won't you just tell me? Old issues seem to be the special of the day. I think it's probably a good thing to get it out in the open, even if it is years after the fact."

Sam breathed in slowly and leaned back in the bed. "What do you want me to say, Dean? I believe you. Thank you for...just, thanks. We don't need to go into all our old issues. I don't want to throw all the baggage in my trunk on you."

Dean scowled at him. "Sam, I swear to God, I don't care how old it is or how heavy, I want to know. What are you worried about?"

"It's nothing!" Sam practically shouted. "You wouldn't understand, because it obviously didn't mean to you what it meant to me. Can we just drop it?"

Dean stared at him, dumbfounded. What the hell could he have done that could be bothering Sam like this? Apparently something he'd done awhile ago, but it must have had a lasting impact. These conversations were causing him to remember times over the past few years when he'd caught Sam staring at him with an unfathomable expression, like he was upset about something he couldn't help. Part of that was probably the voicemail, but there had to be something else too, something Dean had done without thinking that had hurt Sam.

When it hit him, he felt like an idiot.

"Oh, God, Sam..." His breath caught in his throat, and he almost choked. "I...you never said anything. I didn't mean..."

Sam knew he'd figured it out, and his face crumpled a little bit. "It's okay, Dean. Just drop it."

Dean flinched at the wording, even though he knew what Sam meant. "I shouldn't have thrown it away, Sam, but it wasn't about you, I swear. I didn't mean to hurt you, honest to God I didn't. I should have thought...I should have realized...God, I'm such an ass."

Sam stretched out a hand to bridge the gap, resting it on Dean's knee. He coughed softly and shuddered, the pain still wreaking havoc with his system. "Dean, it's okay."

"No, it isn't!" Dean retorted, angry now. "Why the hell didn't you say anything, Sam? I've always regretted throwing it away, but I never realized how it made you feel. I'm so sorry."

"You lost your fatih, Dean," Sam said softly. "I didn't want to burden you."

"I never lost my faith in you," Dean snapped. "God, Sam, you should have stopped me."

"Like I've ever been able to stop you," Sam commented with light amusement.

Dean's mood was still dark, and he glared at his younger brother. "If you had said something..."

"But I didn't, and it's done. It's okay, Dean, I promise, it's okay. I'm not angry, I wasn't ever angry. I was just...sad. You're right though, you explained that you didn't lose your faith in me, and I believe you. That's what matters." Sam blew a breath out slowly.

Dean relaxed slightly, and gripped the hand that Sam had placed on his knee. "You forgive me? For everything?"

"God, Dean, of course I do. You forgave me for shit ten times worse." Sam shook his head slightly in wonder.

"I'm always going to forgive you, Sammy. It might take me awhile, but I'll always forgive you." Dean assured him. "Just as long as you're able to forgive me too."

They sat like that, in the quiet, for a few minutes before Sam was grimacing in pain again.

"The Motrin still okay?" Dean asked.

"Yeah," Sam nodded. "Besides, I have something important for you."

"Oh?" Dean raised an eyebrow.

"Top drawer." Sam gestured vaguely to his chest of drawers, then leaned his head back against the pillow.

Dean released Sam's hand and walked over slowly, pulling the drawer open. It contained some of Sam's belongings, mostly books, but tucked in the corner was the amulet he'd never expected to see again. He turned to meet Sam's eyes, his own eyes wide and his expression one of shock.

"I always hoped someday it would mean something again," Sam explained, his tone cautious.

Dean had it out of the drawer and around his neck so fast that Sam barely had time to blink. Dean moved back over to the bed, gripping Sam's hand again. "It never stopped meaning something, Sammy, even when I was too blind to see it."

Sam smiled, and made a little choked up noise. "God, we're so screwed up, aren't we?"

Dean laughed and brushed Sam's hair away from his fevered forehead, double checking to make sure he wasn't hotter than he'd been before. "Yeah, but at least we're not alone."

"Together," Sam confirmed, gripping Dean's hand more tightly. He winced as the pain lanced through him again, then relaxed slightly. "I think...it might be getting better."

"So talking out our issues fixed your freaky trial disease?" Dean teased.

"Either that or the Motrin's kicking in," Sam snarked at him with a light grin.

Dean snorted. "Bitch."

Sam's answering smile was a complete contrast to the haggered look of his face, but it lit up the room regardless. "Jerk."


End file.
